Dead!
by SkateboardingFlower
Summary: For the Phandom Reverse Bang. Crossover between Warm Bodies (2013) and Dan and Phil.
1. One

**O N E**

Sometimes, Phil wanted to congratulate God for having an amazing sense of humour. No, really. Ten out of bloody ten.

He'd said he wanted to _direct_ a zombie film when he was younger, he _didn't_ say be in one.

He took a bite out of the arm and wrinkled his face.

`Don't complain,' the zombie to his right said.

Phil glared at him. `I wasn't.'

Adam pulled the arm out of Phil's grasp. `You were _totally_ about to. My turn.' He wrenched his head back, bringing with it a strip of dried meat and skin, then sent it on around the circle. Lydia got the arm last; the rule was, the less effort you made to _catch_ the human, the longer you had to wait to eat it. She scowled.

`This is all I've got? You've left me the gross bits.' She jabbed at the ligaments clinging to the bones.

Amy shrugged, folding up a piece of cloth and dabbing at her red, sticky lips. `Run faster next time.' She'd gotten the best. Phil hadn't seen anyone so good at hunting in ages.

But now his attention was taken from the food, and drawn back to her, he remembered that there was something he really should ask.

`Um,' he whispered. Everyone turned to look. For a mad second, Phil expected his face to get hot. _Oh, wait._ He cleared his throat, making his voice stronger. `Now food's done, can we talk about something?'

Amy rolled her eyes. It annoyed Phil enough that he pushed down The Awkward and properly raised his voice. `What do we do when the food runs out?'

`We've _talked_ about this…' She said it as if it was an unreasonable thing to worry about. Phil wanted to hit her.

`Not enough!' He snapped, instead. `Everyone's gone. There's only a few people left outside. Twenty, maybe.'

She pressed her fingers to her forehead. `I know… I know.'

Phil gritted his teeth so hard he felt one of the rotten ones crack. Probably the molar that'd been bothering him for weeks.

In the awkward silence, Adam pretended to be really, really interested in someone's jawbone lying next to his foot, and Lydia began fiddling with her earrings.

`If we leave,' Amy said slowly, refusing to look at Phil, `we're vulnerable. You know… what could get us. This place is safe. Out there isn't.' She gave him a look so deadly, Phil would have feared for his life.

`If we're starving, it doesn't matter if we're safe, does it?' Phil almost said _Jesus, Amy, we're already starving,_ but that'd properly set her off.

`Phil, we don't need to talk about this right now. We've got time.' She stood up. In the pale, dimmed light shining through the windows, she almost looked human. Shadows speckled the light side of her face and the floor, thrown by the constant haze of ash outside, like a horror-world version of snow. `Tomorrow, meet up here. We'll go out hunting.' Then she paused and finally glanced at Phil. `Only take one. We need to make them last.'

* * *

Behind the Customer Information desk was the place Phil slept. It was like Batman's cave, Superman's fortress of solitude… er… he ran out of similes.

But so much more importantly, it was like a tiny part of home; pictures of celebrities he'd liked, taken from magazines he'd found in the aeroplanes, were tacked to the back of the desk. The photo of Matt Bellamy still had someone's old chewing gum pressed over his guitar. Maybe it was the scared child in him, leaping out for about the millionth time and wishing for a bit of nostalgia, but Phil had wanted to replicate his Rawtenstall room as best he could.

The only thing Phil really needed was a photo. Not a paper image taken on a red carpet or with a long-lens camera, a real photo. He'd had one of his dad, long ago, kept inside an old locket of his mum's. It looked like it was taken on a beach, and his dad was turned to face the camera, his mouth slightly open, in a smile. Maybe Kath had called, "look over here", then snapped the picture with no warning. The happiness in the photo was contagious. God, no one could look at it without smiling along too.

Phil had had to sell the locket in the end, maybe a month before he turned. It was exchanged with a soldier for food, and he'd forgotten the picture was inside. Obviously, Phil had remembered after his stomach was full, and after the soldier was long gone.

So that was that._ My own stupid fault._

Phil picked up a box of matches, struck one, and lit the oil lamp above his head, keeping everything as far away as possible.

The safety of the light spilled out. Phil wriggled back into his nest of mouldy blankets and old newspapers, trying to relax. Half-thoughts began drifting through his mind. Maybe, someday, he could write down all the story. He'd always wanted to be a writer, after all. Then he could bury it, in an old Quality Street tin, maybe, to protect it from decomposing. And if the world picked itself back up, someone could find it. They would know what had happened to them, all the people who'd lost their potential whilst trying not to lose their lives…

Phil yawned without opening his eyes, and slowly began to fall asleep.

* * *

Outside of the massive, reinforced windows, the ash turned pale blue as the smothered sun filtered through it. It swirled gently, blown this way and that by the breeze.

_`Phil!'_

He jumped and sheepishly turned back to Amy. She was glaring at him so hard he half expected lasers to shoot out of her eyes.

`Now everyone's _paying attention_,' she snarled, `I'll start. Me and Adam tracked them down yesterday. They're hiding in the old car mechanics.'

Phil knew the place she was on about. It was ten, maybe fifteen minutes away. Full of weapons, too. Tyre irons, wrenches, hammers. It was going to be a tough morning.

`Okay.' Amy held up her bloodied folder, then turned to the first page. `Let's go over the plan.'

They knew the plan.

Everyone knew the freaking plan.

Phil began daydreaming again.

`... then we'll cut them up, and that way, everyone shares the weight.' Amy snapped the folder shut and put it in her rucksack. `Let's go.'

Phil slid his feet into the strong, rubber workboots they found in one of the airport store cupboards. People probably used to wear them when handling electrics. All of them had their own pair; Phil's had moulded to his feet over time. Now they were so comfy, he barely noticed they were on. He made sure his glasses were duct-taped securely around his head. If they fell off… God. He'd better just make sure they didn't.

Right in front of the door, Lydia was shifting from one foot to another, beaming so wide her face just about tore in two.

Look, he could understand.

When Phil got hungry, it felt like dying all over again- vision blurring and going black, pain through every inch of him- but at least he had the decency to feel sorry for whoever he ate. Lydia was looking downright _cheerful,_ bouncing around like an excited puppy. Insulting as that was to puppies. _Suppose dogs are extinct now…_ those feral packs didn't count.

The screech of metal jolted him back to Earth.

Adam and Lydia were pulling away the barricade of a plane engine. Zombies are pretty strong, when they've got the motivation of food.

* * *

None of the humans inside the mechanics noticed them.

Phil counted the heads he could see. Five. They were smiling about something, laughing.

Poor things. But at least they'd only be taking one. Until next week.

Silent, Lydia crept around the side of the building, holding wads of newspaper in one hand and a lighter in the other. She was keeping it as far away from her as possible. She vanished around the corner.

Then...

Then, the voices stopped. Phil could always hear the moment they realised.

Smoke began streaming through the shattered windows, between the bars, and they began streaming through the door a second later.

Phil crouched down behind a bin, Adam hidden behind an old skip opposite.

The first one to run out was a stocky old man.

Adam and Phil launched at him, pinning him down. Amy knelt down, gripped under his chin, and jerked his head to the side. There was a snap and he went limp. That was it- they could go-

Then a tyre iron came flying out of nowhere and Phil was lying on his back, stunned. A new crack had appeared in his glasses, cutting across the swirling ash he could see above him.

`Don't you dare!' Adam roared from somewhere above him, and there was a howl of pain. And another.

Another.

Phil sat up, the street tilting, and realised something warm and sticky had sprayed over his face. Why were they staying, fighting? No one else had.

Amy was taking on two at once- a girl hanging off of her back and a man darting around, both of them trying to get a clear shot with their knives and lighters. Amy was moving so fast she was almost a blur. Lydia was crouching behind the bin, her arms over her head.

Phil staggered to his feet, like he was in a dream. They all had their backs to him- he put his hands around the girl's neck, squeezed and heard a small, quiet choke. He squeezed until she slid to the ground with a _thump,_ ash puffing up around her body, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, the purest blue.

And Amy finally managed to catch the last survivor, forcing him flat on the road.

He was spitting and struggling, filthy and wild. He had a scar across his lip- and brown messy hair- and dark eyes- and-

And then it was gone, as Amy brought her fists down with enough force to split the road under him. There was an awful, wet splatter. Phil winced and looked away.

Amy stood up, then turned around to face her pack. Her sleeves and face were drenched in gore.`Not meant to go that way,' she muttered, as if to herself, then began licking the blood off of her hands.

The fog in Phil's head vanished when the hunger hit him. He doubled over, gritting his teeth against the scream. The horrible, aching pain began running over his body and Phil squeezed his eyes shut. Then a cold hand was pressing something into his. Without thinking, Phil wolfed the food down, just wanting it to stop, not even caring the taste was so bad.

Finally, the pain faded. Phil opened his eyes, and realised at some point he'd fallen over.

`Thanks,' he muttered, managing to stand up without his knees buckling again; Adam shrugged, meaning, _no problem._

He looked down at the girl, her red scarf tangled under her like a pool of blood. They'd all taken bites out of her already, leaving her looking horribly incomplete. The whites of her eyes… well, they weren't white anymore. Watery blood was still trickling from her button nose, moving its way down her cheek.

`Hey!' Lydia yelled, jumping up and pointing to the end of the street.

They all stopped crouching around the girl and looked.

Phil had counted five people living in that mechanics; only four bodies were scattered in the street.

The survivor had a shovel strapped to their back, and was flying over the tarmac like they'd grown wings in their boots.

`Can we go after um?' Lydia asked, greed written into her freckles. The muscles in her legs were already twitching, ready for the chase.

_`No!'_ Amy roared, slapping Lydia with her voice. Lydia flinched. `No,' she added, quieter, looking sadly at the bodies. `We already have too much.'

Phil watched the survivor turn the corner, and vanish. They were probably heading off to join another colony somewhere. Or maybe they'd get torn apart by a dog pack…

`Oi, earth to Major Tom.' Lydia waved her hand in front of Phil's eyes. `We're cutting up now.'

By Amy's timetable, they were only meant to spend ten minutes dismembering each body and taking it back to the airport. Hahaha.

After a very long hour, Phil drew the short straw and had to carry back the torsos. Never fun. They were _really_ heavy. Adam properly lucked out- he only had to carry the eight arms, which wasn't really any different to carrying firewood. It just happened to be firewood that leaked on your clothes.

And after they got back to the airport, there was hanging them up, and setting up a fire, and smoking the leftovers so they didn't go off too quickly, and…

By the time night came, there wasn't a muscle in Phil's body that didn't ache.

He crumpled behind the Customer Info desk, not bothering to get undressed, not even bothering to take off his boots.

* * *

In that strange, half-unconscious, half-awake place, Jimmy Fallon was interviewing Phil about his debut film. _Tell me about the casting process… How did you come to the film's conclusion…_ smoke was drifting in the air… _What special effects were used? Hmm... yeah, that's really interesting. _Smoke? Phil thought sleepily.

He forced himself to wrench open his eyes, and staggered to his feet.

The smoke was everywhere. Phil ran into the atrium, and froze when he saw what was outside.

A fire was burning on the runway.

The planes. All filled with fuel that they couldn't work out how to extract. Phil could feel the heat, through the thick walls and reinforced windows. No. No no no no...

And then he heard a snarl and a scream rip through the air.

Lydia.

Phil froze, so scared he couldn't move.

And then the screech cut off, and all he could hear was the fire crackling. Phil stayed rooted to the spot. Like a hand had grabbed his spine and wouldn't let go.

Footsteps.

A dark shape came out of a side door, silhouetted against the fire. They were striding forwards and holding a shovel like a sword. They paused, and looked around.

Their eyes fell on Phil.

Phil bolted to the doors and tossed the plane engine away, all eight hundred pounds of it. It crashed through the money exchange office. The survivor was chasing him, he could hear their harsh, heavy breaths-

Phil's hands were on the glass of the door when there was a flash of light and an explosion. Suddenly Phil was thrown out into the freezing night air, crashing into a streetlight, snapping it into a sideways V, and falling to the ground, stunned.

Glass was scattered all over the tarmac, glistening centimetres from his eyes. And fire was raining down from the sky.

Phil howled and wrenched away from it, scrambling for cover. He ended up on his belly underneath a car, frantically scrubbing at his clothes to make sure he wasn't burning.

Another explosion. And another.

Every time that animal fear took over his mind, obliterating any kind of thought in it. But finally, it was over and Phil had exhausted himself.

The airport was destroyed. He peered at it from his shelter. Flames crackled from every inch of it. Glass, tiles and concrete had spewed out from the building, where the explosions tore through it as easily as a bullet through a human.

There was no way any of them had survived that.

Phil shuddered. He was alone. He was alone, and in the dark. Children were afraid of the dark. Adults weren't.

And they were wrong.

Phil knew now that being afraid of the dark was a very, very wise thing to be.

The fire had stopped falling from the sky. If he avoided the burning patches on the ground, he'd be fine. He'd be fine.

_Just stay in the light._ Phil began to crawl out.

Something hit the back of his knees.

He collapsed forwards, and a boot crashed down between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor.

`You killed my friends,' a voice hissed. The edge of the shovel pressed into the back of his neck.

Phil scrabbled on the tarmac for something, anything, and found a shard of metal. But the survivor kicked it away and dragged Phil upright.

The red mist of _survivesurvivesurvive_ took him over and Phil let out the same animal howl that Lydia had. He grabbed the survivor around the throat, their pulse twisting under his fingers, spun around and hurled the body into the air.

They slammed into the road, bounced, and skidded to a halt, lying broken, face-down on the ground.

Phil was still shaking.

`I'm safe,' he whispered, forcing himself to walk towards the body. The adrenaline and fury began to fade as he muttered it again and again. `I'm safe, I'm safe… they're dead, I'm safe-' Slowly, he pushed at the survivor's shoulder, rolling them onto their back.

It was a man.

Blood was oozing out of a cut on the side of his head. Most of the skin was grazed on his nose, forehead and right cheek, and his bottom lip was torn completely. His long, straggly hair was matted with blood and dirt and ash.

Then he let out a small noise, surprisingly soft. So he wasn't dead. He _could_ be, within thirty seconds, potentially. But…

Phil didn't think he could kill someone unconscious. It didn't seem fair. There wasn't enough brutality in him.

`And I'll die if I'm alone,' he whispered, to his shaking hands and twitching shoulders; when the world had turned itself inside out, when everything collapsed, something had woken up. No one knew properly what it was. Or who it was.

But It was there.

* * *

Phil made his decision, and pulled the survivor into the recovery position. What he remembered it was, anyway. _Hello cheeky- leg up, roll over._ Right? There was a loop of fabric around the survivor's neck, too. Phil decided he'd better take it, just in case it got caught on something and the survivor suffocated.

And then Phil sat down, wincing from the heat of the fire and looking over his shoulder into the inky black of Luton, with its faceless, wrecked buildings, waiting for daylight to come.


	2. Two

**T W O**

An hour after dawn, the survivor twitched. He slowly lifted his arm, as if checking he still could, then touched the gash on the side of his head. He drew in a sharp, painful breath.

He opened his eyes.

`Don't move,' Phil said, giving his voice a bit of a snarl. He needed to seem as scary as possible. For the minute, anyway.

`I won't… my-' The survivor suddenly choked. `Mask,' he gasped, ` I can't…' He wrenched himself up off of the ground and onto his knees, his whole body juddering, until he was heaving blood-tinged phlegm onto the road.

Phil connected the dots and yanked the fabric from last night out of his pocket, pushing it into the survivor's hand. Then, whilst the survivor couldn't move, picked up the shovel from where he left it.

The survivor gasped a few times, then slowly sat up, holding the cloth in place. `Why aren't I dead?' It was muffled.

Phil glanced over his shoulder again and decided to speak fast. `I'm gonna die if I'm alone out here. So will you.'

The survivor flinched slightly. He knew what things hid in the dark.

`We can stick together for a while, both find new colonies and never see each other again.'

The survivor snorted, tying the mask around the back of his head. `I'd actually rather be dead.' Now, none of his face could be seen. Not even his eyes, behind those filthy, scuffed goggles.

Phil pressed the shovel into the survivor's throat. `Really?'

There was a long, long silence. `I guess I could stay with you. To find a new colony.'

Phil moved the shovel. `I'm keeping this.'

`Fuck you.'

The survivor said it in the same tone as he might have said "thank you". Phil shrugged, and turned back to the airport. It had burned itself out overnight. The sight of the empty, charred shell made his insides wrench.

`Did you kill all of them?'

Even though Phil was certain what the answer would be, he had to make sure.

The survivor laughed, the sound of it flinty and harsh. `Yeah.' He stood up. `Why? It isn't like you care.'

`I care,' Phil said quietly.

`Where are we going, then?' The survivor carried on like Phil hadn't said a word. `Do you know somewhere?'

`Well… that depends. Do you know how many humans are left in town?'

`Yep.' The survivor pointed to himself. `My group was the last.'

`You're kidding.'

He snorted. `Nope. So. You'd better have a plan.'

Anger flared up from the pit of Phil's stomach. `I do, actually. Manchester. I think there's colonies there. For both of us.' Most of the other big cities got flattened, but Manchester had stayed intact. Kind of. And even though it was useless, Phil needed to go home as much as he needed to eat when he was hungry. Just once, before something killed him. Once was enough.

`Manchester.' The survivor said it slowly, then laughed again. `Not the worst place. I won't kill you 'till we get there.'

Well… technically, until they got there was better than before they got there. `Deal.' Phil held out his hand. The survivor looked at it and rolled his eyes.

Before they left, he went back into the airport, praying that the food hadn't been incinerated. It was a deathtrap in there, charred beams all over the place. He could barely see through the haze of smoke.

Once, he came across a big pile of ash, with a smaller pile of ash next to it. Lydia's tarnished earrings were lying beside the small one. His dull heart-ache got worse. At least he never saw Amy or Adam.

The airport Burger King had a walk-in freezer at the back. It wasn't cold, because the electricity had been gone for so long, but it was strong and protected their food.

The stench of burnt meat wafted out of the metal room, and Phil gagged.

Black, cracked body parts hung down from the ceiling on hooks. He covered his nose with his sleeve and pulled the arms and legs down. Everything else was too awkward to carry.

When he finally got outside of the airport, the survivor was nowhere to be found.

He peered at the buildings and the cars, looking for a flicker of movement. He almost hollered a name, but then realised he didn't know what the survivor's name _was._ And yelling "human" would just sound stupid. What was he, an alien out of Doctor Who?

He settled for yelling, `_Hey!' _instead.

`Calm yourself, I'm here.' There was a squeaking, rattling noise. Phil looked to his right and saw him coming down the street, pushing a shopping trolley filled with cans of food. Then he looked at what was in Phil's arms. `Excuse me. What the _hell_ are you holding?'

Phil shifted awkwardly. `Um, what's your name?' He asked, changing the subject.

The survivor glared at him. `You are _not _bringing those.'

`What else am I meant to do?'

He kicked at the road, sending grey spraying into the air. `Jesus Christ.'

`They're not your friends,' Phil lied, shifting the limbs a little. `This is from last week.' The survivor glared at him.

`That isn't true, because you wouldn't have killed my lot if you still had food.'

`Either I bring these,' Phil snapped, losing his patience, `or I'll have to eat you. Can you just suck it up, please?' And he dumped the cooked arms and legs into the shopping trolley.

They walked in dead silence for a very, very long time. Phil stared at his feet for most of it, watching one boot shuffle in front of the other. It was surprisingly mesmerizing.

`Dan,' a voice mumbled. Phil blinked at the human beside him, who was kicking a stone along the road. `My name's Dan Howell.'

`I'm Phil Lester.'

That was the extent of their conversation.

After a while, the light began to fade, just as they reached the fly-over under the motorway. Behind them, the dark, lifeless buildings started to look a lot more threatening. Phil shuffled his feet. `Do you have a lighter or anything?'

`Yeah. I set fire to your airport, remember?'

Phil picked up half a brick, channeling all his anger into turning it to dust. Behind him, Dan got a fire going. The light threw its flickering circle for a good metre. By the time that happened, night had properly fallen.

Phil sat inside the circle, his knees pressed into his ribs, the skin on his shoulders prickling and tightening. The feeling spread down his spine. Across from him, Dan was glancing over his shoulder and trying to pretend he wasn't.

`I'll take the first lookout. If you want,' Phil said. Dan said nothing, but after a beat lay down, using his rucksack as a pillow. He was snoring almost instantly.

A few minutes later, Phil realised he really should have let Dan take the first shift. He hadn't slept for… he was too tired to actually work it out, but more than twenty-four hours, at _least. _

For an hour or so, the greying outlines of the road and buildings were visible, but soon the inky black swallowed them up as well. There was nothing outside of the flickering circle, and the sleeping human on its other side.

Phil twitched whenever he thought he heard something, but there was nothing sliding through the shadows. No smell, either…

`Could you shut up?' Dan said into his rucksack.

Briefly, Phil imagined rolling Dan into the dark and waiting to see if anything got him, but managed to restrain himself. `What do you mean?'

`Humming. You were humming.'

`Oh. What song?' There was a low moan from the dark, and both of them jumped, waiting and keeping their eyes trained on the long road. But nothing happened. _It was the wind. Yeah, had to be. _

`How the hell would I know?' Dan snapped, obviously recovering first.

`Forget it.' Phil turned around and rested his head on his knuckles, ignoring the pain in his chest. If Dan wanted to be an insufferable, self-centred, irritating bastard, who couldn't even show any _courtesy _after killing Phil's entire colony, then-

`Interrupted by Fireworks.' Phil looked over his shoulder, seeing Dan had leaned up and was watching him. `It's from an old video game.'

The words triggered a memory. Wrapped in a blanket with only his hands sticking out, plonked in front of the PS1, in his old flat, a warm bag of microwave popcorn against his hip. `Oh. Yeah. I remember now.'

`You remember?' Surprise was etched into Dan's face. `I didn't think you…' He stopped talking abruptly and began staring at his hands, but the hurt grew inside of Phil, bigger and bigger, flopped over and curdled into anger.

`Your turn to take watch,' he said, yanking off his raincoat and punching it into a pillow. Dan jumped and took a breath.

`Just leave me alone,' Phil said before his companion could get a word out. ` And you'd better not let the fire go out. I bet you'll fall asleep,' he added spitefully, not waiting to see Dan's reaction, and squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw stars.

* * *

It was the usual set of dreams: the first was about his family. They were always on a train platform, and for some reason, Phil knew that if they got on the train they'd be gone forever. He was trapped in the ticket booth, watching through the glass. When the train pulled in, he would begin screaming and crying, pounding on the window. It never worked. They always got on the train and vanished.

After that, he'd dream about normal life; chasing someone down and chopping them up, stuff like that, but always with dry, choking sobs.

But that night, a new one appeared. Phil was sat behind the customer service desk in the airport, with a leg cramp. Standing over him, looking in the opposite direction, was a shape, a silhouette in the cloud of smoke. He had to stay silent, or it would hear him. It- she- was searching for him.

He shifted slightly, trying to ease the cramp, and his boots squeaked against the tiles.

Her head snapped to the side, a full ninety degrees and her body didn't move an inch- Phil tried to run but he was frozen, watching her lean down, with her eyes filled with blood and her tongue lolling on her chin-

* * *

`Hey, wake up.'

Phil moaned, his head pounding. His nerves were still jangling with the leftover terror of the dream.

The voice came again. `Wake _up.' _A foot prodded into his belly. Phil realised dimly that he was trembling all over, and knew that if he fell back asleep, then he'd go straight back to the nightmare. He forced his eyes open.

Someone stared down at him through their scuffed-white goggles. `What the fuck were you doing? You were choking or something.' Dan. His name was Dan.

`Doesn't matter.' Phil's vision went wobbly and dark, and his stomach twisted. The pain began running up and down his body. `Where's the trolley?' He didn't get an answer quick enough. _`Where?' _ The word came out like a fist banged onto a table. Dan stepped back slightly.

`I hid it over there.' He was pointing towards a tangle of brown sticks. A silvery handle gleamed among them.

As he ate, Phil took a guess at what Dan was doing; turning away, his nose and mouth squishing up, probably wishing he still had his shovel so he could cut Phil's head off.

What Dan was actually doing was kicking out the fire, and glancing over at the zombie curled up on his knees, wondering whether he should be blamed for trying to survive.

A few bites later, the hunger was gone. Phil wiped his mouth on his sleeve, quivering slightly. When he felt better, he pulled the trolley out of the dead hedge, hearing the tins clatter together. He picked up one of them and turned it over, smiling as he recognised the old brand.

Dan reached over and plucked it out of his hand, tugging at the ring-pull and drinking the baked beans like they were Coke. He gulped a mouthful of muddy water from a banged-up bottle. Then Dan scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving it dirtier than it had started, and pulled his mask back up. `Okay. Which way are we going?'

`We're that way,' Phil said, pointing at the slope. `That road leads onto the M1. Then we'll follow it and-'

`Turn off at the M6, then carry on down the M56,' Dan said smoothly.

`Show off,' Phil muttered, beginning to pull the trolley up the hill to the road above. It looked like the weather was going to turn on them. It had been a dry few months, but the sky looked blacker than usual around the already dark horizon.

`Firstly, I wasn't, and secondly, why's showing off a bad thing? I bet it's just the word people use when they want to shut someone up or make them feel bad.' The trolley became a little lighter as Dan helped, pushing it from the other end.

Phil flicked his eyebrows up. `You've been called a show-off a lot, then?'

A little noise came out of the human's mouth. `Something like that.' It pulled a laugh out of Phil.

Suddenly, the trolley became a _lot _heavier, slipped out of Phil's hands and went crashing right back down the bank.

He swore. `What happened?! Oh my God…' there was a trail of arms, legs and cans of baked beans, all scattered down the slope.

About halfway down, Dan was on the ground, his teeth gritted and breathing fast. He was holding his ankle. `Slipped,' he hissed. `On the ash.'

`You're kidding.'

Dan glowered at him from under his eyelashes. `Yes, Phil. I let the trolley fall, meaning we'd have to do this shit _all over again, _just to mess with you.' He let go of his ankle and began clapping, then winced and held it again. `I'm fine, thanks for asking.'

`Oh, shut up.' His glasses were spider-webbed with cracks; Phil could barely see Dan from where he was, but even with his dysfunctional eyes, that ankle didn't look too good.

Carefully, just in case he slipped and broke his leg or something, Phil edged down the slope until he was sat next to Dan. Up close, it looked even worse, and Phil could tell how much pain Dan was trying to breathe through. `I need to take your boot off… don't move.' Slowly, Phil undid the laces and eased off the tatty hiking boot, and then peeled away the crusty sock underneath.

The skin was mottled purple-black under the layer of dirt, and was deepening by the second. It was at a weird angle, too. Phil hissed through his teeth.

`Can you move your foot? Round in a circle.' He moved his wrist in a circular motion. `Like that.'

Dan just about managed it, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and still breathing fast.

`It probably isn't broken…' Phil murmured, mostly to himself. Dan bit out a laugh.

`Oh, that's good. I'm just in actual agony, then.'

`You'll live. You just need crutches or something,' he said eventually.

`Is there ibuprofen left anywhere?'

`Um.' Phil leaned down and saw that Dan's ankle was so swollen it looked waterlogged. `I'll find something. Maybe.' Then a really, really awkward thought occurred to him. His hands were cold. They'd probably be better than an ice pack.

Then Phil imagined having that particular conversation, and wanted to rip his intestines out himself.

`You're just leaving me here?' Dan called down, the moment Phil got onto the road.

The already familiar irritation rose up from Phil's stomach. What was he meant to _do _for this person? He spun around. `You wanted painkillers. I'm finding you painkillers. You can't walk, can you?'

`I mean, I don't have a weapon or anything.'

Both of them looked at the crumbling buildings and old, burnt-out buses, stranded on the verges around the road. If a pack of animals attacked Dan, and he didn't have a weapon…

So, this would mean trusting him. Specifically, trusting him to not throw the shovel at his neck like a very long, very lethal frisbee. Trusting _Dan, _who'd already tried to kill him twice.

Phil hesitated, his hands tightening on the handle.

Suddenly, Dan lifted up his head, something new in his eyes. They said, _I won't do anything. _They said, _please don't leave me. Give me a weapon, at least. _

Something inside Phil's chest twisted. Pity? Guilt? Either way, it made him reckless.

`_Argh_\- fine.' Phil tossed the shovel onto the slope, and kept his eyes trained on Dan's hands. Dan didn't say thank you (of course), but drew the shovel close to his chest.

After he'd put the trolley upright and sorted out the gammy wheel, Phil collected up his food and Dan's food, then dumped it all in, leaving it behind a car. There wasn't any point in hiding it back in the hedge. If any dogs were hunting, they'd smell it.

`I'll look over there,' Phil called, waving his hand in the direction of the old flats. One of them was bound to hold _something. _

Dan nodded. His face was set and blank again, like the shutters had come down. He'd been vulnerable for precisely two seconds- to get what he wanted- and now Dan The Murdering Bastard was back.

Phil stalked off down the road, weaving around the cars. It'd be difficult getting in some of the flats, but he knew better than to check the pharmacies. They were the first looted, along with the Apple stores.

_I bet Mum would've gone on about consumerism. _To be fair, she'd be right. The world was ending, but Phil could remember seeing ten year olds throwing rocks to get at the iPods, thinly protected by a sheet of glass. He could remember everything about that day- like his mind had hit _record _in HD.

The burning. The screaming. The smoke. Soldiers wearing surgical masks and riot gear, firing their guns into the crowd.

Phil stopped in the middle of the road and squeezed his eyes shut. He did his usual trick- imagining the memories playing on massive TVs in his head- then imagined pulling them all off of the walls, and locking them in a cupboard. Winding a chain around it. Tossing it into an abyss so deep he never heard it land.

His head was quiet again.

Phil carried on walking down the empty street, pulling his raincoat around him.

The flats loomed up in front of him, bars across the windows. His heart sank at that, but Phil got lucky; someone had left a window open on the first floor. Most of the flats were locked, and most of the ones that Phil could get into had already been looted. But someone had left a little bottle of ibuprofen in a bathroom cabinet on floor sixteen.

When Phil brought it back, Dan's face lit up with a genuine, relieved grin. It was so infectious he _had _to smile back, because that was the kind of smile where you simply couldn't help it.

Well, he _couldn't._

Dan shook two tablets into his hand, balled up some spit and swallowed them, screwing up his face. `Aaah… hate pills.' He looked up. `Thanks.'

`No problem.' Phil realised his stomach was left warmer than he'd like from Dan's smile. `Give that back,' he said curtly, to make up for it. Dan looked around him, then remembered the shovel and slid it over the ground.

When it was safely tied to Phil's back again, he pretended to be fascinated with a bird hobbling beside a car. It had a missing wing and two beaks sticking out of its head. Poor thing.

It was depressing, but better than looking at Dan.

Who was talking.

`What?'

`God, you're so rude.' Dan was shaking his head.

`I'm not! I'm not normally. What were you saying? You think you can move now?'

`No,' Dan said slowly. `I was thinking about what you said last night. How you remember that video game. What else?'

`You mean… what else do I remember?' Once Dan had nodded, Phil began chewing his lip. He remembered everything, clinging onto the memories like they were lifelines. But there was no way he'd make himself _that _vulnerable to Dan, so he compromised. `Some stuff. Like where I used to live. Books, games. Normal things, I guess. And _obviously _I remember my brother and parents.' Phil kept his tone light and shrugged at the end. That seemed fairly _I-don't-really-care. _No, these memories aren't the only things stopping me from curling into a ball made solely of trauma, why do you ask?

Dan was frowning. `I always thought you lot didn't remember anything.' Then he shook his head. `Sorry. Was that rude?'

`Oh, yeah. But no, if you get… turned, then you know who you are. Your personality's the same. The only difference is, if we don't eat humans, we die. Actually, dying's not the right word. We just decompose, but we're alive at the same time. You _can't _die, that's the scary part.'

`Sounds bad.'

`It is,' Phil said softly, a little window opening in his mind. Through it he could see all of the people he'd known who'd refused to eat meat, resisting even that terrible hunger, and what they'd eventually looked like. How he'd finally had to leave them behind because they couldn't walk, mouldering away piece by piece in endless hiding places.

Dan gently straightened out Phil's hands. They were clenched so tight part of the skin on Phil's hand had blistered open, one of his knuckles poking through. He kept hold of them. `Don't. You'll hurt yourself.'

Dan's hands were so warm against Phil's cold ones.

`I'm sorry.'

Shock flooded him.

Dan's lips twitched down. `I'm really sorry. If I'd known what happens to you, that you all care about each other, I wouldn't have come after you. Killed your friends.' He looked down, as if only just realising he was still holding Phil's hands. He let them go.

Immediately, Phil wanted them back, to hold Dan's scarred, dirty hands and whisper, _I forgive you_.

He also wanted to pin Dan to the ground, forget about what hid in the shadows and smash his head into a bloody pulp. Tear his pretty face apart until nothing was left, make Dan suffer for killing his friends, make him hurt like he was hurting-

Instead, Phil pulled the shovel from his back and ran to the nearest car.

He lifted it high and smashed the window. He screamed and took out all of the grief and fucking _unfairness _on the metal rather than the flesh.

Every time the shovel pounded into the car, Dan flinched. Eventually he gave in to the coward inside of him and pressed his hands over his ears, so he wouldn't have to hear what he'd done.

The zombie let out one last screech and hurled the shovel through the windshield, shattering it into a billion pieces. Then he walked three steps, finally gave in to the buzzing numbness in his head, and dropped to the road, not feeling anything. Hoping he never felt anything ever again.


	3. Three

** E**

Still stuck on the slope, Dan watched the zombie. He started playing with the hem of his shirt, realised he was doing it, and stopped.

Down on the car-choked road, Phil hadn't moved for a long time. He was sitting with his chin resting on his knees, holding onto his arms, in the shape of an egg. It was almost night. A whole day had gone by and they'd made no progress. Dan couldn't walk far and it didn't look like Phil was going to get up to make a fire any time soon. What if he'd decided that he didn't care if they both died? _I can't die_, Dan thought, panic bubbling through him. _I can't._

He took a deep breath and pushed himself onto his feet, pain stabbing his left leg, and tried to half-hop, half-stagger down the slope to their old fire. By the time he made it the already dim sun had dipped completely behind the flyover, casting long, dark shadows around them.

`Phil,' he called, resting on the cracked curb and easing his leg out in front of him. No response. `Phil. Please.'

The mangled car was closer.

Dan steeled himself, got to his feet again and managed to get to the shovel, still sticking out of the shattered windshield. He pulled it out and used it as a crutch to get to Phil.

`You need to help me. We need to get a fire going.'

Slowly, Phil turned around. He didn't have tears in his eyes- Dan wasn't sure the zombies could cry- but every line of his face looked traumatized. It was as if everything, his mouth, his eyes, were pulled downwards and dimmed.

Guilt twisted inside Dan. He wished he could take back what he'd done. But if he hadn't done it, and unintentionally forced Phil to stick with him, then he'd be dead already. Maybe he didn't completely regret it…

And of course, there was his own group, all of them dead so, so fast. The bitterness and pain welled up again.

Dan shook his head furiously, trying to focus again. It was too much. Too confusing.

`Can you stand up?' He asked.

Phil didn't move, but then obeyed, jerkily. Nothing changed in his eyes. Dan worked out what to do. `Go and snap some branches off of that bush, and build a fire,' he commanded, like a parent ordering around their child.

Still with those broken movements, Phil did as he was told. Dan pulled some pocket-fluff out of his clothes and the lighter. Half its fluid was left.

That fire got going the moment darkness fell.

Dan shivered, thanking God he hadn't left it any longer. Not that he believed in God, but that was besides the point. `Get some sleep,' he told Phil. `I'll stay awake tonight.' Privately, he thought the chances of Phil spotting anything attacking them was pretty slim. And he didn't quite trust Phil to wake him up.

More time passed.

Dan pinched his face whenever he felt himself drifting, and fed the fire whenever it dimmed.

Another hour, maybe two went by. He had started yawning so hard his jaw cracked. Red pinch marks covered his cheeks and arms, but the pain wasn't working anymore. `Don't sleep,' he whispered to himself, head lolling and his eyes slowly sliding shut.

When Dan opened them, it was later. Much later. The tip of his nose was icy, and the sky looked greyish. Three in the morning, maybe.

Cold?

Dan bolted upright and pain shot through his whole body from his sprained ankle. Instead of the fire, a few embers were glowing in a pile of charcoal. It barely cast enough light to protect a cockroach. Dan just about fainted; he stirred it and laid down some more kindling, praying that he could get the fire going again. Nothing had got them yet… and then he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder.

In the darkest pocket of shadow, in the corner under the flyover, he could have sworn something moved.

It might have been his mind playing a trick on him. Maybe.

Dan managed to get close to the ground again without jarring his ankle, and blew on the embers. They flickered again, their glow beginning to strengthen. More kindling…

The sounds of something slow and heavy was coming up the road, alongside the smell. The fire had caught hold, and the kindling was curling in on itself and turning black. More sticks, more air-

Dan's hands shook so badly he dropped everything- the fire sputtered and looked like it was going to die- no no no no-

And then finally, finally, light bloomed out, and a mangled, burnt-looking hand scuttled back into the darkness.

Harsh breaths sawed out of Dan. His pulse jumped in his throat and eyelids. Whatever It Was stared at him balefully, with it's glowing, red eyes.

Sulkily, it turned around and went away, making that slow, shuffling noise. The smell of musty old carpets faded along with it. Dan reached out behind him blindly, making sure it hadn't got the zombie when his back was turned, and felt a hand link through his.

`You're okay?' Phil asked, pushing himself upright. His hand was cold as a chunk of ice. Dan nodded, lifting up his goggles and rubbing his eyes with the cleanest bit of his mask.

`Yeah. I mean, I almost spontaneously fricking combusted, but yeah.'

Phil snorted. Sometimes, Dan wondered if his coping mechanism of turning into a comedian was normal.

He twisted around, watching his zombie carefully. Phil's knobbly neck and shoulders were still slumped. Phil looked up, the firelight casting his face into sharp contrast. `What?'

`Are you okay? From earlier?' Dan realised he was still holding Phil's hand, and decided that he didn't care. Actually, it felt nice. For a minute, he didn't say anything. Then Phil nodded, closing his eyes. `Yeah. I'm okay now. It was just- I was a bit angry.'

All the nervous tension made Dan laugh. `Yeah, no shit.' Phil's mouth quirked slightly, but then fell back down. `Well, um. That's good.'

`Get some sleep,' Phil said. `It's definitely my turn to be lookout now.'

After making sure his ankle was propped up, Dan lay down and closed his eyes. Immediately, he felt like he was floating, with bright white lights flashing behind his eyes.

`I think we might be even now, anyway.'

`Hhm?' Dan managed to open one of his eyes- they were fuzzy with exhaustion. The left side of Phil was lit up by the fire. The shadowed, torn part of his neck was black against the rest of him.

`I killed your friends, you killed mine, now we've got no one. Maybe this is like… fate's way to sort things out. We're even, so now we can just get on with it.'

What came out of Dan's mouth wasn't quite what he was thinking. `You believe in fate?'

Phil properly chuckled that time. `Yeah, I do. Get some sleep.'

He almost managed to say goodnight, but before he could, he was asleep.

* * *

The next day, Phil found some sticks that'd work just as well as crutches. After that, they began to make good progress. Actually, better than Phil had expected. They were halfway to Manchester within three days. It got closer and closer, until one day, through the haze of ash, they could see its cracked skyscrapers.

The sight of them sent a tiny spark of happiness through Phil's chest. Home. That was home.

`That's the first time you've smiled,' Dan said quietly.

`Huh?'

`I said, that's the first time you've smiled. Properly, I mean.' Then he looked down and rubbed his nose. `Just seemed nice. Ignore me.'

He really wanted a distraction after that stupid sentence came out his mouth. The trolley was a pretty good one. Replacing embarrassment with anxiety wasn't the healthiest of tricks, but it worked. Inside the trolley was three cans for him, and an arm and a leg for Phil. Those skyscrapers were barely on the horizon. He didn't think Phil would be able to make his food last that long.

`I think we'll be okay,' Phil said slowly, when Dan brought it up. `Just so long as we don't get held up.'

Dan nodded, then glanced at the sky. Still darker than usual.

`What if it storms?'

`Well…' _well,_ Phil thought, _if we get trapped somewhere, the hunger could make me kill you._ `I'd…' Privately, he knew he'd rather let It get him than kill Dan. Who, speaking of, had a smile spreading across his face.

`Are you trying to look on the bright side?' He asked, laughter pulling at his voice.

`Yeah. Imagine if I looked on the dark side, life's bad enough already.' He paused. `Don't you?'

`Nah. You just get disappointed,' Dan said flatly. But he still felt a squishy feeling in his stomach. This was an actual conversation. He'd missed it.

The thunder drowned out what Phil said. It crashed out of the clouds, slamming through the ash. Oh, _Christ…_

`Car!' Dan yelled, starting to hobble. Phil understood instantly and began running along, pushing the trolley. They looked like two tiny ants, running and stumbling along the motorway and scuttling to avoid the stinging rain.

The closest car was a red, battered little thing, about ten metres away, abandoned in a lay-by. Phil tossed their food out of the trolley and underneath it, before wriggling under next to Dan, who was already lying on his stomach. He looked at the sleeves of his thick raincoat. They were bubbling white from where the rain had hit him.

`Did you get burned?'

`No,' Dan said. `You?'

`No.' They listened to the rain hammering on the roof of the car. Hail the size of marbles began clattering into the road, and roar after roar of thunder came out of the clouds. If this storm lasted for more than a day…

Phil tried not to remember the last time that had happened, almost four years ago. Hopefully, he'd be able to keep those memories locked away in the back of his mind. No, they were bubbling up- Phil began to shake, and seized onto the first thing he could find to get him out of his head.

`Can you tell me something?'

`What the hell are you on about?'

Phil almost screamed. `Please. Just tell me a story, whatever you want. What do you remember from before?'

Dan seemed to go with it, and exhaled slowly. `I remember my grandma. She looked after me sometimes. She let me and my brother watch films 'till way past our bedtimes whenever we slept over.' The corner of his mouth twitched. `My mum went crazy when she found out. Grandma didn't give a damn, she just kept on doing it.'

A picture swept into Phil's mind. In it was an old living room, like the one his own Gran had; Dan's grandma had really white hair, sort of fluffy and tied back, and was little and round. She had a dressing gown wrapped around her, and had her feet up, sat on a sofa. Her arm was around a tiny, sweeter version of Dan.

`You have a brother?' Phil asked softly, then caught himself. `Had?'

Dan nodded. `Dunno where he is. He probably died.' He took a shaky breath, then looked at Phil. `You had a brother, too. I remember you telling me.'

`His name was Martyn.' They both fell silent. `Do you sometimes wish you could die? Just to be with them again?'

`Yeah, obviously. But then it's like-'

`Like when you get close to dying, after all that, you'd do anything to survive.'

`Yeah,' Dan said. `Exactly.' He wiped under his eyes, leaving grey smudges behind. `Can you tell me something now?' He paused. `Can you tell me about your friends?'

At first it seemed strange, telling things about them to the person who killed them. But Dan regretted what he'd done; and anyway, Phil found that he genuinely wanted to. And so he did, telling Dan all of their weird quirks: Amy's combined control-freak and badass warrior, Adam's annoying habit of clicking his tongue when he was bored. He had even started to remember the more endearing things about Lydia. Once, she'd spent a good hour making up stupid puns with Phil to cheer him up after they'd accidentally killed a baby.

Talking about them seemed to draw out the grief from Phil's chest.

By the time he'd run through everything he could think of, he felt lighter than he'd done for ages. He turned his head, awkwardly in the claustrophobic space, so his nose was almost touching Dan's. `Thank you.'

Dan's eyes crinkled at their edges. `No problem.' They seemed a lot warmer and deeper up close. It felt nice to be this close to someone.

`What about _your_ colony?' He asked.

Dan blinked, surprised, then exhaled slowly. `Well… There was Aiden, he was sixty or something. Used to be a soldier. He had this huge scar going from here to here- and he was _terrifying_ if he was mad at you. Ben and Naomi used to work together at the BBC. Aiden found them a few years ago, hiding in a hotel. They were so funny, like this proper comedy duo.' He'd started to smile. `Reckon they used to do that on the radio.'

Phil knew who was coming next. Half of him wanted to hear, half of him twisted and screeched _no!_, but did it matter if it helped Dan?

`Aaliyah was the youngest. She travelled everywhere with her mum before all this, so told us these stories about places she's been to. She had this amazing way of describing it, so we felt like we were really there...'

And suddenly, a cold, shadowy thing wriggled beside Phil, invisible to Dan. It had blood-filled eyes and a throat necklaced with bruises, and a scarf, a long scarf so much like a noose-

`I don't reckon she'd be too mad at you, though.'

`Huh?'

`You would've been friends. You've got the same sense of humour. And she'd know you were just trying to survive.'

Something warm and brave swelled up in Phil's chest. He edged his hand out and leant it against Dan's, then carefully threaded his fingers through. Dan squeezed it back. Right that second, Phil decided he would go through the end of the world all over again, just so long as it ended with this: holding Dan's hand, underneath a car, with a storm raging above them.

Then Dan started breathing more gently. Phil looked- he'd fallen asleep. There was a whistling noise every time he breathed out through his nose, making Phil smile. Now Dan was asleep, he looked so much younger. A lot more like the Dan getting snuggled by his Grandma on a sofa.

At the same time, this close up, Phil could see the sickness shining out of Dan's face; his closed eyes were rimmed red, and his lips were white and chapped. Hollows had formed at his cheeks and under his jaw. Scabby bald patches spread under his long, curly hair. Phil wished he had something to cover them up, so Dan would look less vulnerable.

_I'll miss you, when you're gone._ Most of Phil meant _when we get to Manchester._ A very small part of him meant… the other thing, but from the looks of things Dan hadn't been poisoned too badly by the radiation seeping out into the planet. It'd take a while, anyway.

Phil looked at their hands. They were still intertwined. His thumb rested over Dan's. Both their hands were a mess, covered with scars, filthy, bleeding, blistered and calloused, but somehow, they still looked nice together.

Outside, the pattering quieted down. Phil smiled. The storm was nearly over.


	4. Four

**F O U R**

Phil stood in a cobbled square at the centre of Manchester, squinting his eyes against the flecks of ash, and slowly taking in their surroundings.

The place was scarred with riots and violence. Under his feet, most of the cobbles had been ripped up, teeth missing from a smile. Another memory smouldered through Phil's head, one he'd seen on his television screen; people black against smoke- flashes of light coming from the grenades the army threw- and then those people ripping up cobbles from the ground with their bare hands. Bringing them down again and again on the soldier's heads. Phil could remember seeing clumps of hair, splatters of blood flying up every time those big stones came down…

That battle had taken place here.

But another memory was behind that. He'd been here before, he knew it, but it was as if he was trying to remember a dream- the more he struggled, the more it slipped away from him.

On the curb, Dan was resting his legs, rubbing his calves.

Phil went to sit beside him.

And suddenly it came to him: `Albert Square,' he mumbled.

`You what?'

`I just realised, we're in Albert Square. They used to hold the Christmas markets here.'

A small smile played around Dan's mouth. `Yeah?'

`Yeah. They had stalls all over that way- and an ice rink there. Did you ever go?'

Dan shook his head. `Nah, lived in Woking. There were Christmas markets in London, though.' He looked around the square, taking a deep, sad breath. `You used to live here, didn't you?'

`Almost,' Phil said. `About an hour away, in Rawtenstall. I only came here on weekends with my friends. I shouldn't be sad about it at all.' He began fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the same way Dan did. It was comforting, rubbing the rough material between his finger and thumb. `Anyway, it's about ten, I reckon.'

Dan raised his eyebrows, eyes starting to dance. `Eight hours of looking before we stop?'

`Sounds good.' Phil had one last look around the square. The memories were getting all tangled up. _Surely _no one had been bleeding to death in front of the Moomin stall, or being machine-gunned as his mum won a teddy bear. `Let's go.'

* * *

Nothing was in the banks. They'd all been sealed up on Day One. The supermarkets were empty, too. Someone had lived there once, judging from all of the locks on the door and empty cans of food, but not anymore.

The optimist in Phil had really, really hoped they wouldn't get to the point of randomly searching in buildings- it took too long, they didn't know what else might be hiding there- but it didn't look like there was anything else to do.

Halfway down Marylebone Road, after looking through empty flats and a Polish food shop, his stomach began to cramp. Pain sizzled up and down his body.

Phil clenched his teeth together, unable to do anything but wait for the pain, the hunger to go.

And then a hand touched his shoulder-

`Are you okay?'-

A hand that was warm, that was living, that was human-

The zombie grabbed it, not caring what it was attached to, who it was attached to- it was jerking and twitching, trying to get out of his grasp- but they wouldn't, they wouldn't- he was too hungry to _ever _let them go-

Something smashed into his face, hard enough to send him collapsing to the ground.

A different kind of pain began to throb through him.

Phil touched his cheekbone. It had somehow caved in, and when he drew his hand away, his fingertips were streaked with tarry blood.

Above him, Dan was ashen, trembling and holding the shovel. Its sharp edge was splattered stickily black.

`I'm okay now,' Phil mumbled, his tongue heavy with shock. He went to stand up and Dan jerked back.

The world's worst cocktail of guilt and pain and anger flooded through him.

`I'm _okay,' _he snarled, `don't _look_ at me like that. I won't lose it again.'

Dan's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His breath was flitting in and out of him. Phil could see his pulse going crazy. `You're sure?'

_Please don't look at me like that, like I'm rabid. _`Yeah, I'm sure. Just… maybe don't touch me again.' '_Cause I'm not, I won't hurt you, I won't. _`Where do you want to look next?'

For a second, it looked like Dan was about to say something else; but then he let his arms drop, let the shovel fall to his side. He shrugged. `Office buildings? They'd have pretty good security.'

And then his eyes widened. Only slightly.

But enough to send queasy spasm through Phil. `What's the matter?'

Dan's face was dead still, blank as marble. `Dogs.' That one syllable held so much. `Behind you.'

Phil began trembling. Slowly, he stood up, and turned around.

Ten of them, maybe. All of the dogs were so thin, they looked like piles of sticks thrown together, held up with matted fur. A thin line of drool dripped from one's mouth, plopping to the road.

All of them had a look in their eyes Phil knew too well. They hadn't eaten for a long time.

And now two meals were laid out in front of them, one just about on a silver platter. Phil glanced at Dan's battered, cobbled-together crutch.

The lead dog, one that could have been a golden retriever, once, began to stalk forwards on legs thin as bamboo. A growl was coming deep from the back of its throat; its lips were drawn back from its teeth.

The others followed, two breaking off from each side. They were going to cut off any escape.

`Run into that building,' Dan said, his voice tight. `I'll come after you.'

`Dan-'

`_Go.' _

Phil's heart and stomach wrenched, but his head won out- he began to run towards the old Nationwide building, the one with a shattered window- he scrambled through, glass tearing at his legs with serrated teeth. Behind him, he heard the dogs howl and bark, heard the heavy, slow noise of Dan trying to run with his crutches.

Suddenly, Phil realised-

He'd left Dan with the shovel.

The _shovel_, that heavy thing weighing him down.

What use was a _shovel _against a pack of ten dogs?

Phil turned around, ready to scramble out of the window again and bloody well _carry _Dan out of the mess, when the gunshot cracked out.

Phil froze.

It bounced off the street like a thunderclap.

`Dan?' He whispered. His tongue was like lead. He couldn't say anything else. Why couldn't he say anything else? `_Dan?' _

And then there were footfalls outside, heavy army boots. Slowly, Phil went back to the window, and looked around the edge of the rotted frame.

One of the dogs lay in the street, twitching. It was the retriever; the spent bullet had torn through it's ribcage. Blood was spraying and leaking from the wound, getting weaker every second. Phil hoped it would stop whimpering soon.

About two metres away, Dan was on the ground, unmoving, his shovel and crutch sprawled beside him.

Someone was striding down the street, towards the dog. They held a gun. It looked like the ones they held on Call of Duty, right down to its telescopic sight. They were so swaddled in tattered clothes Phil couldn't tell if they were male or female, human or zombie.

They reached the whining animal, and stood over it. Even dying, it started growling, weakly trying to bite their ankles. Without hesitating, they cocked the gun, aimed, and shattered its head.

Phil looked away, trying to control his quivering gag reflex.

Then, they turned their attention to Dan, the unconscious human at their feet.

Panic flooded him. He was still frozen, his hands glued to the window frame.

_Don't let them shoot him, _he thought, not even sure who he was praying to. _Please don't. _

They swung their gun over their shoulder, knelt down and felt for a pulse. Then they started trying to pick him up off of the ground.

`No!' All the sense fell straight out of Phil's head and he clambered back through the window, pain shooting up his legs. `Don't, he's with me-'

They pulled their gun around again, cocked it and shot at the road, movements practiced, smooth as silk. Phil flinched away, and raised his hands above his head.

`Step any closer,' they said, `and the next one's going in your guts.'

A woman. Phil guessed a human, because the woman hadn't killed Dan yet. But Phil had heard of zombie colonies that captured people alive, and cut their arms and legs off bit by bit, cauterising the wounds to keep their food fresh.

That couldn't happen to Dan. It _couldn't._

`Okay,' he said, trying to mimic the way Dan kept his voice level. As best as he could, anyway, with the way that pool of blood kept growing around Dan's motionless head.

They stared at each other, the tarmac like the strip of fighting ground in Mortal Kombat, ash falling and spiralling around them.

`What's your name?' Phil asked, hoping it'd act like an olive branch. The woman snorted through her nose like a horse. His hopes fell.

`What's it to you, _zombie?' _

_Human. Definitely human. _`Are you part of a colony?'

She shifted her gun slightly. `Maybe. Why?'

`We've been looking for colonies. Me and my friend down there.' Phil pointed helpfully. `His name's Dan. He's human.'

`Yeah, I can see that.'

Phil began to wonder if every human he was destined to meet would either be endlessly sarcastic, or too dead to say anything.

The hunger began to shiver through him again. Suddenly, he knew he didn't have much time, either. Any longer and he'd go for the woman.

`Can you take him somewhere safe?' Phil made sure he wouldn't attack her by clenching his fists together, and focusing on that.

She let out a harsh laugh. `I'll take him. I'm sure as hell not taking you.'

`That's fine,' Phil said calmly, even as a new kind of pain tore through him. He stopped clenching his hands and began scraping at his wrist with his fingernails. `Are there any zombie colonies here?' He asked, the desperation slipping through. The woman heard it, and latched on instantly.

`No,' she said, the word oozing satisfaction. `We got rid of them.'

It was like getting shot. The ground swayed under him, and black dots sparkled in the street- no, not the street- _I'm seeing things… _

As Phil descended into his panic, the woman pulled her gun over her back, heaved Dan over her shoulder and pulled an iron lamp and a lighter out of the bag on her hip.

`Light that,' she said, dropping both on the ground, and kicking it towards him. `When it gets dark. You might be a zombie, but I'm not leaving you to those things.'

The woman slid Dan's deadweight into her arms, all six feet of it, and began to walk away, past the emaciated, shattered body of the dog.

`One of my boys got killed yesterday,' she called over her shoulder, her voice getting quieter with every stride. `We dumped his body near the Eye. Should still be fresh enough for you to eat.'

`Thank you,' Phil managed to force out, feeling a drop of tarry blood trickle down his palm.

And Phil watched silently as his human bobbed out of sight in a stranger's arms.

Chances were he'd never see Dan again.

Phil sat on the curb, and pressed his head into his knees, squeezing his hands to his ears. Why wouldn't the numbness arrive? Why wouldn't it make the pain go away?

The hunger was so much more bearable.

* * *

Someone was carrying him.

A tiny part of him, the five year old part that never really left, revelled in it- the sense of being small enough to be carried, and the idea that if someone carried you, then they must really love you.

But there was pain, too. Radiating out from his forehead, throbbing whenever the person moved.

It got worse the more awake Dan became; finally, by the time his eyes were open, he was crying with it.

`Calm down,' an unfamiliar voice said. `You're almost there.'

`Phil?' He whispered, barely able to see who was above him.

`No. Don't close your eyes again, you won't wake up.'

Dan focused on his breathing instead. It distracted him from that awful, awful pain.

_I remember tripping… when those dogs were there… _

A dog leapt up at him, its teeth six centimetres long and it's eyes huge and bloodshot-

Dan screamed and twisted, fighting to be free of the arms.

`Sh sh sh, it's not real.' Then there was a glitch in his memory, a skipped cutscene in a video game.

`Who's this?'

`Someone called Dan- came in with a _zombie.' _

`Really?'

`Where's the vodka? I need to sew him up-'

Suddenly Dan was blinded by light. For one, insane second, he thought that he was seeing heaven. But then a head blocked it out and he realised it was a lamp, attached to a long wire.

Electricity?

A bottle pressed against his mouth. `Drink,' the voice ordered. Dan obeyed without thinking, gulping down the liquid that set his throat and stomach on fire.

And he finally let himself fall into that black space, yawning out from the centre of his head, and the pain began to fade.

0

Waking up was so slow and difficult, it was like crawling through a tunnel filled with glue.

Opening his eyes was so painful, Dan had to screw them up all over again. `Don't worry,' a soft, West Indies accent said, `your eyes'll adjust to the light soon.'

He nodded stiffly, and tried to sit up. It sent a stabbing pain through his head, but he carried on until he was upright.

When Dan opened his eyes again, everything swam into focus.

Someone had put up curtains taken from a hospital, giving him some privacy. But one side of it was drawn back, and Dan could see he was in a warehouse.

An enormous warehouse, with dirty light coming in through dirtier windows. It was filled with humans, at least thirty of them; sat on mattresses, talking, cooking, cleaning. There was even a group of children doing a jigsaw puzzle.

Tears sprung into Dan's eyes. He'd never seen anywhere so beautiful in his life.

`We had to perform an operation on your head,' the voice said.

Dan slowly turned towards it, trying not to jar his head, and saw a half-blind lady, knelt on the floor beside his mattress. She wore a grimy vest, showing the knots of muscle in her arms and army trousers. Her faded yellow headscarf was the only splash of colour.

`Blood clot,' she explained, guessing what his question was. `Right here.' She touched the side of his head, just shy of the jagged ridge of stitches. `I'm Sheree Green. I'm in charge of this colony. You're in Manchester, remember?'

His stomach lurched. `Where's Phil?' He began looking around the cubicle, expecting to see him curled up somewhere on his raincoat. Sheree lifted her hands slightly.

`Calm, yeah? He's fine. Neither of you got hurt by the dogs. From where I was standing, it looks like you tripped over your own feet. Got a right bang on the head.'

Dan snorted. `Sounds like me. You're sure he's okay? Is he with a zombie colony?'

She shifted slightly, crossing her legs rather than sitting on them. `I don't know. I had to leave him behind. He could have chosen to attack us, if I showed him where we are.'

`Phil wouldn't do that.'

Sheree looked at him sadly. `Are you sure? People surprise you with how far they go.'

Everything Dan had done through grief or desperation flashed through his mind.

But…

`Phil wouldn't.' Dan stood up, trying not to fall over as his stomach swooped with nausea. `Is my rucksack here?'

`You're not going out? You just had a _head operation.' _

It was tucked away in the cubicle corner. Dan opened it, checked everything was still there, and pulled it over his shoulder, ignoring the pain in his head and his aching ankle- and Dan walked two steps, his eyes wide. He hadn't walked on his ankle since the day he sprained it.

`Thank you for the help,' Dan said, meaning it. `And for fixing my head.'

`Don't go. Stay. It's safe here! Why are you going to find him? He's just a zombie.'

`No, he's my- he's my friend. I need to know he's okay.'

Sheree pressed her lips into a line. `We don't have any zombie colonies in Manchester. He's probably left you already.' She wasn't quite looking in his eyes.

In that split second, Dan made a decision, a very quick decision, but one he was certain was right.

`Are there zombie colonies in some other town? One he might have gone to? _Tell me!' _

Phil wasn't just any zombie. He was funny, he chose to be kind, he chose to protect others, and Dan wouldn't leave him, he _wouldn't. _

Then Dan realised the warehouse beyond the curtained cubicle had gone very, very quiet.

_Oops. _He might have said all that out loud.

And then Sheree Green did something very strange. Her eyes filled with tears, glittering like tiny diamonds. She was staring at Dan, almost desperate, like she was hanging off a cliff and Dan was the one clinging to her hands.

`You need to understand something,' she said. `I loved my husband-'

`What does that have to do with anything?'

`Hush. Let me finish. I loved him the same way you seem to love your friend.'

There was a beat, as Dan's muddled head tried to work through the past tense. `He died?' And Dan understood. `A zombie killed him.'

Sheree nodded, and took a long, shuddering breath. `Killed him slowly. And… I'm telling you this, because then you might understand. You might not blame me so much.'

He wasn't really sure what to say, except mumble, `huh?', like a dummy.

`There's a zombie colony in Grange-Over-Sands,' Sheree said. `One of the largest in the country.' She didn't say anything else, just looked at her lap. Dan understood that silence, too.

`You didn't tell him.' Fury spread through him, from his head, all the way to the tips of his twitching fingers. So much of him wanted to pound his fists into a wall, strangle her, scream- why did she punish Phil, make him a replacement for zombies who were probably long dead?

But that open, defiant, grieving look Sheree had on her face, God, he knew it so well. He took a long breath, waiting for the calm to settle before he said anything.

`I'll tell him,' he said, keeping his voice tight and low. `I won't come back, but thank you for everything.' And he still meant it. He didn't feel mad at Sheree. He could understand that harsh, rash urge for revenge.

And he walked past the staring humans, picking his shovel up on the way, an oil lamp, and a lighter.

This place was beautiful. He knew it. It had actual electricity, it had good protection, it had food. Somehow, they kept children alive here.

But the colonies in Grange-on-Sands might have those things, too. Even if they didn't, Dan wouldn't be apart from Phil. He wouldn't.

He walked out into the street, and squinted up into the sky. The Manchester Eye peeked up over the top of the buildings.

He wrapped his hoodie tight around him to keep the cold out, pushed the shovel through the straps of the rucksack.

_Don't go anywhere, Phil. I'm coming. _


	5. Five

**F I V E**

The body-dump made a surprisingly good cushion, and the limp wrist Phil had in his hands made a surprisingly good distraction. Whenever a scary thought came into his head, he bit into it, shutting his mind up. _I don't know what to do._ Chomp.

_I don't know what to do._ Chomp.

Over, and over, and over again.

Because he _didn't_ know what to do. He'd run for a week, and now the road was done. It was like driving across a bridge, and only realising it had broken in the middle when it was too late to stop.

But he could stop.

If he wanted to.

Mixed in with all of that was his longing for Dan, so real, so true it felt like a knife digging into his guts. Phil was desperate to see him. For all he knew, that head wound had killed Dan.

He shook his head hard and stuffed the last of the food in his mouth. He'd eaten so much of that fresh human he had an actual bulge in his stomach.

_I could die happy like this, you know. With a full stomach._ All he'd need to do was throw away the lighter. One hard overarm throw, like he was playing rounders. No effort at all, really.

Phil screwed up his eyes against the ash and peered at the sky. It was getting to the darker grey of four, five o'clock. It'd be properly night soon.

If he'd counted the days right, then it was July or August. Summer.

When he was little, summer nights lasted 'till half-nine, sometimes even later. Phil would lie on his belly on the cooling grass, and read his books with dustflies dancing over his head, yellow in the setting sun.

Where was the sun now?

The lighter arched through the air, dull against the grey ash-smoke clouds, and broke apart on the ground. Phil didn't see where it landed.

He lay down on the corpse-pile, brushing the leftover bones down into the street, turning it to a mattress. It was soft.

And he closed his eyes, aching to finally, _finally_ get some sleep.

* * *

The night surrounded him, coating everything in dark, almost seeming alive. Dan held up his lamp, making sure to always keep his feet and hands in the light.

It was impossible to see anything beyond the lamp, except dim silhouettes.

He wouldn't have been walking this long if everything had gone to plan, but oh, no. Apparently the world just _hadn't_ screwed him over enough when it made sure some absolute bastard closed up Mosley Street. Worse, judging from how rusted the barbed wire over the fence was, it had been a long time ago. Which meant Dan didn't have anyone to blame, and had resorted to taking out his anger on the chunks of rubble in his path, kicking them out of the way.

Why the hell did everything look the same in the dark? Why did it seem like he was walking in circles?

Perhaps the radiation was finally getting to his brain. Perhaps Dan Howell was finally going mad.

He was so busy thinking about it, in fact, he didn't notice when he walked out into a big, open space. He didn't notice until he tripped over a fallen bollard, smashing his knees into the ground, juddering his head so hard he heaved with the pain.

When Dan finished shaking, swearing, he looked up. Above him was a huge dark shape. A wheel.

He let out a breath and walked towards it, moving his lamp around in a wide arc. There was a weird smell hanging around, too. A strange, lumpy pile was at the wheel's base.

The light glinted off a pair of familiar glasses.

Relief flooded him, so heady and powerful it was like getting drunk.

Dan ran to the body-dump and put down the lantern beside the sleeping zombie. Sticky blood was all over the bottom half of his face, smudges of it on his nose.

_You've eaten._ Thank God, thank God…

`Phil,' he whispered, shaking his shoulder. `Wake up.'

Phil mumbled something under his breath. A name, maybe. Dan didn't wait to work it out; they were running out of _time_; so filled his lungs and yelled,_ `PHIL!',_ so loud it echoed.

Phil bolted upright, still half-asleep, crouched down and got ready to leap at the thing that woke him up. Dan shielded himself with his hands.

`Don't! It's me.'

Slow realisation spread across his face. `Dan?' His face dropped, pure misery cracking across it. `You're dead too?'

It was such a surprise, Dan laughed until his stomach ached. `No,' he managed to choke, `you absolute nutter. Why would we be dead? And why were you in the dark? Sheree gave you a lamp, didn't she?'

`Um- I-'

A shadow suddenly detached itself from the pile of bodies. It stumbled away, no longer masked by the smell of the rotting corpses. Dan's breath got a little faster. He prayed the night air would stay still…

`There's a colony for you,' he said finally, shaking himself out of the distraction. `By the coast. It's called Grange-over-Sands.'

Phil stopped peering over his shoulder. `I remember that town. Are you sure there's colonies there?'

`No. Obviously. But we weren't sure about Manchester, either.' Dan didn't need to say the next few words: _and look where we are now._ A spark began to dance in Phil's eyes, little gold dots.

`Leap of faith?' He asked, with the air of someone who knows completely what the answer will be.

Dan smiled, a proper grin. `Hell yes.' At that moment, he decided that the hope he felt and his excitement for the future, was pure happiness. It would be a feeling to remember, one to go back to whenever everything seemed dark.

The whole night long, eyes watched them- from ruined, collapsing roofs- from under cars- from dim, foul-smelling alleyways. Every one of those creatures came stalking out from its hiding place.

One creature was a little smaller than the others.

It was on top of a car, cross-legged, looking at the two shapes curled up together in the light of the lamp. There was a tiny breath of wind. It's scarf lifted, tugging at it's crushed throat.

It watched them until the ash turned from black to flakes of grey and the shadows began to fade.

* * *

Dan started as he saw something clambering off the roof of a car.

Beside him, Phil mumbled, `what-is-it?' all the words squashing together.

`Don't worry,' he said after a moment, watching it stumble out of sight. `Just one of. You know.'

`Oh,' Phil said, and then his breath slowed again. Dan's soon followed.

* * *

Aaliyah dropped down onto the road, landing like a sack of flour. She ended up spread out on the floor, feeling like her body wasn't quite a part of her, like she was floating above it and looking at it sprawled out. She was different now. So slow, so clumsy.

She missed how nimble she was in life.

Alongside the hundreds of other dead, Aaliyah stumbled back to the dark, her eyes glowing red as blood, as car tail-lights, as the sun, rising behind those impenetrable clouds of ash.

It was dawn.


End file.
